


At Least It's Not Raining

by AuthorDude99



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Violence, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-18 17:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18124496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorDude99/pseuds/AuthorDude99
Summary: Few ever live to see their children die, even less before they're grown. Nevertheless, it's still painful and few ever know on their own how to deal with it.





	At Least It's Not Raining

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Fallout 4 and its associated installments is own by ZeniMax Media, Bethesda Softworks and Bethesda Game Studios. I am not associated with any of them and I will take this down if requested.  
> This topic of this one-shot is something I'm not an expert on. I have lost my sister's pet, but I've never been a parent, so the fear of child loss has never been something I seriously considered in my immediate situation. I hope I don't offend anyone reading. If a parent is reading this, I question why you're on Archive of Our Own. I mean, you have a life.

Preston Garvey would often say, “At least it isn’t raining.” This was to say that thing could be worse. They could be starved of food, hearth and home, beaten by Ferals and stripped raiders, but at least the weather held in their favor. Well, you wouldn’t guess what was happening up Sanctuary Hills.

The rain had move in before anyone was awake and fell from clouds that kept the sky dark as twilight. Every building with a leaky roof was left for the workshop driveway, which was strangely the driest spot around. Hazel, Piper, Shaun, Mama Murphy, the Longs, Sturges and Cait were all sheltered there, listening to the radio, waiting for the weather to clear.

“If only Preston were here,” Hazel remarked, “I could’ve roasted him for this.”

The survivor herself was tinkering, trying to make herself busy. She began working on her Power Armor, T-45 series. She got it in the Museum of Freedom in Concord when she first met Preston. Despite having it, she’s only used it less and less as she got better at surviving in the Wasteland. It’s also high maintenance and she could only improve it so far, but she’d picked up a few things on her travels and it was pretty much the only thing she could do.

Cait was just messing around with guns. She didn’t know how to modify them, nor did she know how to assemble them once she took them apart, but she could reload them. As such, she unloaded them and reloaded them to the point of annoyance from everyone around.

“Could this fucking end?” Marcy Long exclaimed, jumping up and throwing her hands in the air.

Everyone took note of her. “Now, now,” Mama Murphy said, “you know acting out isn’t gonna help.”

“Like you know!” Marcy barked back, “You just tell people bullshit for chems!”

“Eh!” Cait interjected, cocking a shotgun, “Lay of her, bitch!”

“Oh, right, like you’re gonna shoot me!” the settler said.

“Oh, please!” Cait replied, setting the shotgun down and getting up, “There’s only one thing to do to a rapid bitch!”

As Cait reached for a swatter, Hazel threw down her tool and got between the two hotheads. She knew both, but she knew the brawler better. Cait confessed everything she shamed herself for every day and kicked her habit with the survivor. Marcy was a mother grieving and throwing her anger at whoever passed her gaze. Both looked tough, but Hazel knew they were carrying a giant hole in their hearts. She’d tried to mend one of them, but the other turned out to be much more of a challenge.

But what Hazel knew was that she couldn’t let them fight each other. Not only because they couldn’t afford the loss in the workforce, but also for the senseless loss of both. She wasn’t overly fond of Marcy, she always found of her a bother, but it was better for them to tolerate one another than kill.

“Both of you!” she ordered, “Cool down!”

“You gonna let this bitch just bark at everyone who breaths?” Cait asked, idly fiddling with the swatter.

“Speak for yourself!” Marcy snarked back.

“At least I can shoot straight!” the brawler replied.

Marcy threw Hazel aside and pushed Cait into the rain. On the wall like a fly, the survivor couldn’t help but watch as the two hotheads fell into the mud. Marcy threw a few punches before Cait hit her in the side with the swatter. The rain must have loosened her grip because it quickly fell out of her hand.

The brawler got up and took to kicking the settler in the bruised side repeatedly. It was brutally clear that Marcy was outmatched. Cait was built to fight for a living and could take twenty punches and give twenty more while her opponent was used to farming on her knees.

Marcy seemingly down, Cait walked away, angry for whatever reason. She didn’t seem to want to fight again, but the settler grabbed her ankle and tripped her up into the mud, obviously still blood hungry. Filthy and bruised, the brawler turned around and sucker punched Marcy in the jaw. By then, the fight was out of both.

Hazel and Jun Long went out and picked up their injured loved ones. Hazel was glad she gave the road leathers and armor instead of that awful corset for Cait to wear. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Marcy, who wore some flannel shirt and jeans. She’d would probably get sick and then they’d all get sick. Of course, a Stimpak and warm care would fix that up for both her and the brawler.

“Get off of me!” Marcy hissed and threw Jun’s arms off, storming off.

Hazel felt a twinge of guilt for this. She knew what loss was like more than the mother knew. She could’ve comforted her months ago, but she was often busy and never bothered to approach her despite her harden visage. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to not even bother with her, but perhaps there was still time.

After she set Cait down and treated, Hazel put on her General’s coat and hat on and looked for where Marcy went off to. She didn’t pay attention to her most days, so that was against her. She checked house to house, looking through every dry spot in the neighborhood, but she was nowhere.

The place she finally found Marcy was a spot by the river leading out of town. She saw her there out of the corner of her eye a few times but didn’t think about it much. With the rain, she would sure get sick.

Hazel set herself down next to Marcy. “You know, you’ll need to come back,” she said.

“Those assholes back there don’t care,” Marcy hissed.

Hazel put her hand on the grieving mother. “I know more than you know what it’s like to lose someone close,” she said, “I know it hurts. But when you have someone to lean on, it helps.”

The survivor could only guess what Marcy was going through. Yes, they both felt grief, but there were sure differences. Hazel lost her husband and son in one day but could still find her son. Marcy lost her son forever and her husband was lost to grief. While Hazel lost her son after she found him, she didn’t know every moment of his day until he died.

A fortune teller couldn’t have helped. Mama Murphy couldn’t have said anything to prepare her, even she gave every detail as to how he would die. Worse, if she said nothing, Marcy would’ve asked why she didn’t tell them to prevent his murder. Nothing prepares you for death and grief, not even a forecast.

“You still have your husband,” Hazel continued, “he can help.”

Marcy looked up with angry, tearstained eyes. “Let’s get out of the rain,” Hazel remarked.

And so, Marcy got up with Hazel’s help and they walked back up the road to the house. The survivor didn’t know if the woman in her arms could truly pass through this grief. She herself once leaned into alcohol to distract herself from her life, but she didn’t have a shoulder then. Now she has plenty people to talk to. Maybe Marcy would make it through better than Hazel did. One can hope.


End file.
